twitching.

This is basically just a bunch of junk rattling around in my head that I don’t have time to be thinking about much less blogging about, much less blogging about in an unapologetically disorganized, non-sequential (GRE word, that was free), too many (parenthesis), messy mucky run-on sentencey way. Whateva, whateva, this is my blog. I do what I want. You don’t have to read it (please do, I like you. Sparkles to you).


So this blogging business lately has been out of control. All this time I spend staring at this screen I could be working a school stuff, not the least of which is an assignment called a CTE which social work speak stands for Critical Thinking Exercise. It is no coincidence that CTE rhymes with ‘harder than this has to be’. That is the little sing-song that plays in my head while I’m sitting at Golden Roast. “CTE, harder than this hasss toooo beeeee.“ It also rhymes with, ‘damn I hate this’.. (oh wait no it doesn’t, my bad.) Sometimes when I think about writing my CTE, my eye twitches. I’m not kidding. It twitches. Seeing as how I already have a habit singing to myself and laughing out loud to myself, and talking to myself (sometimes with hand gestures), all of this alone in public, I feel like a twitching eye makes me look just on that wrong side of crazy. So when I’m trying to procrastinate and quell the twitch, instead of watching TV or sports or fantasy football (that’s you people), I resort to Internet. Where the blogs flows like milk and honey. To stop your eye from twitching too, here is the regular beat of blogs I patrol. Just what the I doctor ordered (pun intended always):



Kelle Hampton: Click on that and try not to pee on yourself before you even scroll down. The background on my computer are pictures of this woman’s children. Read Nella’s Birth story. Generally I don’t ready every entry, I just scroll down and look at her blissfully beautiful photography of the “almond-eyed one and wispy one” and vicariously live through these children’s sidewalk chalk and beach trips every single beautiful shot as they stare back at the the camera that’s always in their face with the doting mama behind it. I hope they are 1 and 5 forever. I will never dress as well as these children or Kelle herself, who’s skinnier than me even after having 2 kids (twitch, twitch). When Nella got glasses, I didn’t know if I could hold it all in:





MODG. Martinis or Diaper Genies. I have no words, Modg. Laughing outloud at the computer myself hot blogtastic mess this is. This is where I get the phrase sparkle hearts, NBD, BD, among other phrases. I straight-up steal from her because I envy her skillz and wit and honesty and hot husband. She’s pregnant and hasn’t named the baby so she refers to it as plankton, or planky for short. She tries to get readers to buy tranny shoe memberships from Kim Kardashian. Bathroom humor, confession fridays, among a million other hilarious and random things. I could go on. MODG, You are the Lebron James of blogging, the matriarch of all bloggessness. Anywhere. Everywhere. Amen.

ALSO, I have a few people in real life who blog’s are pretty wicked too. Like this girl. Morgan Harris Trinker. This is her wedding, which I talked about so adnausem to my roommates while they were wedding planning that they asked me to stop. I didn’t. Now I just say, Have I ever to you about my friend Morgan? The bees knees. All that trendy speak that just means awesome. I want to fake my own wedding or pregnancy just to get her to take my picture. Or better yet, actually get married. I’ll keep y’all posted on both of those. And at Morgan’s wedding (have I mentioned Morgan’s wedding?) one of her bridesmaid was Amy Pratt. Thereisgaymaninmycloset. If I were to have a girl-crush on a blog other than MODG, it would be this one. (Settle down Tara, I’m just crushing on the blog)

So there are some others but these are the favs. But ya know, sometimes even the blogs don’t ease the pain, the grad school blues, the single girl swag (or lack there of). and it’s then time to bring out the big guns. I think you know where I’m going with this. Those days that you feel like your mood and your ‘tude need a time out. You might have sat and mighta cried through yet another beautiful wedding. Came directly home and stood at the kitchen counter and before your diet knows what your face is doing to tell you WOMAN NO you are dipping chocolate chip pancakes into peanut butter icing. WHAT? These are my confessions, Usher-style. For all those times I feel like I have gotten punked by my own estrogen. Just like all those dumb girls I judge, I am one. I am them. They are me. I am straight-up she-fool. who am I gonna call? Not ghostbusters, kids, but Bridget Jones. YES. Ahhhh it’s just so rich and great and sickeningly comforting to me the extent to which this slightly chubby and very awkward version of Renée Zellweger pre-Kenny Chesney annulment reminds me of myself. The sequel is not as good. You don’t repeat something wonderful. (Ask all those UT fans still sporting 1996 championship t-shirts about that). Did you learn nothing from Home Alone and Karate Kid, Bridget?? Where were you in the 90s? Oh thats rights, you were busy being awkward and female and trying to get Hugh Grant to love you. All the women in the world baptized in estrogen and licking peanut butter icing off their fingers salute you. To blogs and to Bridget.